The Biggest Joke of All
by Chinese Bakery
Summary: It's been a few years and Violet is still reeling in anger and bitterness, until she figures out a safe way to communicate with Tate.


I used to think of death as a magical off switch that would fade everything to black, the end. So long, teenage angst, see you never. I thought there would be no more pain and anger. Just goes to show I didn't know shit back then, when I was alive.

You'd think being a ghost would come with some neat tricks or at the very least some clanking chains and a bunch of dumb kids to terrify. Turns out my only superpower is to appear and disappear at will. Now that's just grand, isn't it? I can zap myself from the bedroom to the kitchen in a snap of fingers. If I'm feeling particularly feisty, I can even make it to the gates of our house. Not an inch further, mind you, since I'm stuck here forever and all.

I've come to really loathe that word. Forever. It used to be a somewhat countable unit, ranging from a few weeks to a decade or two depending on what you threw the word at. You're grounded forever. You and me, together forever. I'll wait for you forever, if I have to. That's what my ex-boyfriend's been telling people, by the way. He probably means it, too, but I don't want to talk about him.

I guess I am bitter. That's what the maid keeps telling me. Quit being so bitter, Violet, it's not becoming. Like I care about making myself attractive to this sorry crowd.

My parents aren't like that at all. In fact, they're happier now than I've ever seen them. It's like they left all their mind-games behind and only see the good in each other. It's a pretty sweet deal, I guess. I try not to grind my teeth at them too much, but it takes a lot of effort, especially when they're playing with that undead baby doll of theirs. Me, I don't ever get anywhere near that thing. I haven't forgotten how it came to the world.

* * *

It could be worse, I guess. At least I have all my head. Some of the others? Not so much.

Take Elizabeth, one of the many residents of our little mad house. She's been on a loop forever; it's painful to watch, really. Every other month, she emerges from that dark basement and she's all, 'Hello, can you give me a ride to my audition? I don't want to be late to my becoming a movie star.' For fuck's sake, Liz. You're dead, like, really, _really _dead. It's been, what, 70 years now? Time to give up the ghost, so to speak. But no, not her. She does seem like she gets it when you lay it all out for her, but the moment she gets back downstairs, her cold dead brain operates a massive reset.

I envy her sometimes. And then I loathe myself for it. The one thing I've got going for me, the _only_ thing I have that they don't is that I'm not resigned yet. I'm just not down with that stupid plane of existence they're all making the most of. It doesn't change jack shit about the way things are, of course, but it's nice to know there's still something vital left in me. That I haven't faded away into nothing just yet. The moment I lose that, I'll stop being a person and become just another part of this house, like the squeaky floorboards and those damn murals. The thought makes me want to kill myself all over again.

The loneliness is the worst, as much as it sucks to admit. Being a loner was plenty fine as long as it was by choice. I didn't get around to making friends around here before I died and now, well, it's not like I have many occasions to meet new people. And besides, who'd want to befriend random dead people? If I even count as people anymore.

I know he can sense it, when I start spiralling. Maybe he's been stuck here long enough to perceive subtle shifts of mood in the atmosphere or whatever. Maybe he really does love me as much as he claims. I don't know. I don't want to know.

Some nights, when I'm really on edge, he leaves messages on the chalkboard in my old room. Sometimes it's quotes from books and songs I used to like, sometimes it's just useless stuff like_ 'It will get easier'_.

Coming from a pathological liar, it doesn't carry much weight. It's kind of nice, though. You know, if you make abstraction of everything.

Whenever there's talk that a new family might move in, my first worry is that they'll get rid of that damn chalkboard. You never know with him. He's entirely capable of writing his next note right on the wallpaper in the newcomers' blood.

Did it feel like that, for him, in the beginning? Like you're going to implode any minute from the sourness alone? That's what I really want to ask him. He's the only one who'd answer plainly. I won't, though, because he'd start believing in the possibility of a truce and there'll be none of that. Not ever. Not after what he's done.

* * *

One night, after long hours of walking around in circle, boiling inside with rage and acrimony, I just do. Before I can talk myself out of it, I walk in there, grab some chalk and write down, '_WHEN does it get better?' _

I snap myself out of it pretty fast, though. I erase the words with my sleeve and throw the piece of chalk out the window for good measure. But when I turn back, there's a new message on the board.

'_I don't know. For me, it took you.'_

So there. I've brought this on myself and have no one to blame for its happening, really. I should go. Or perhaps address the fact that his following me around, although not terribly surprising, is all kinds of creepy.

Instead I sigh and write, '_Not helping'._

'_Sorry.'_

I bite back a smile. There's silent conversations and there's... this. I can't see him, he can't see me, and there's not a word spoken out loud. It seems safe enough, somehow. So, I write, '_And all the years before that?'_

He takes his sweet time with this one. There's a long pause, and then I'm watching the letters being carefully traced until they form the words, '_Nora took care of me.'_

It hurts, that answer. It hurts in so many ways, because he did it for her, or so he says. I guess he should get point for straightforwardness though, so instead of fleeing in a fury, I just nod into the empty and leave the room quietly.

Afterwards, it becomes more difficult to block him out of my thoughts. I'm just as mad at him as I've been for ages, but it starts blending with other things, too. Repressed memories. Affinities. Longing.

And against my better judgment, I go back. I know I shouldn't, but I feel compelled to. There are too many things I want to tell him, ask him, or inflict upon him, it's hard to tell them apart. But when it gets down to it, there's only one thing I really need him to know.

So I get to the point. '_I hate myself for missing you.'_

Nothing appears on the chalkboard. Instead I hear him whisper my name. I blink and he's there, standing before me with his head held low and it's so damn _painful _to look at him I can't process it. It's too acute, too raw.

In a sob, I disappear.

* * *

For a long time after that, I stay far, far away from the bedroom for fear of my own reaction were I to come face to face with him again. I start second-guessing my resolve to cast him out for good. Is there a point to all this?

Everything is the way it's supposed to be. They're all going about their business, all of them fine with their predicament. I watch my mother breastfeed her little freak like it's perfectly normal, although he should be old enough to read on his own by now. Moira's polishing the kitchen counter like it really is her life calling while the twins keep knocking chairs down to piss her off. Hayden's probably banging someone, somewhere and Nora's surveying the living room with an air of distaste. All is swell in living dead land, or so it seems.

It's like there's a scream stuck inside my throat all the time, and I can't ever let it out. It's exhausting, really, to keep on feeling like this and have no one notice it. Or rather, forbidding myself to accept the attention of the only one who does. I start contemplating the grand scheme of things. The relative gravity of what he's done on the scale of fucking eternity

Until the day I find myself writing on the board, '_Sorry I bolted. I wasn't expecting you.'_

When I get no answer, I croak his name. It's been a while since I've actually spoken, which is one of the reasons I'm here, I suppose.

"It's okay," I say to the silent room. "I won't run away this time."

I know I'll get a lot of shit for this. Hell, it could start a riot. Besides my parents' justified fury, it'll probably anger the whole household because, let's face it, everybody hates him. He's the reason a number of them are stuck here in the first place.

"Are you there?" I still ask.

There's a flutter in a corner but other than that, nothing happens. Nothing but my temper starting to rise. Because, seriously? _Now _is the time he'd choose to give up on me?

"I'm here," he finally says, his voice measured and unsure, and I take a long, relieved breath. The next moment, he's standing by the door, a good distance away from me, wary and on guard. His shoulders are bunched like he's readying himself for what's to come.

"I thought of something funny this morning."

"Okay," he frowns.

"Yeah. And the other day I walked in on my dad wacking off in his office. It was the grossest thing I've ever witnessed, for sure."

"Uh."

"I wanted to tell you."

He just stares, clearly not getting my point.

"I wanted to tell _you_," I repeat. "Turns out you're the one I feel like talking to most of the time. Whenever something funny or stupid or freaky happens, I want to tell you and I can't. Because of... you know."

"Maybe you could," he says cautiously. "Tell me things, I mean. It doesn't have to mean everything you think it'd mean."

I lift my eyes and suddenly we're staring at each other for the first time in ages. He's wearing torn jeans and an old sweater and looks exactly the same as always, although it feels like a million years has passed since the last time we've had an actual conversation. Times goes by really slowly when you've got nothing to do but drive yourself crazy with old grudges and discontent.

I start tugging on my sleeves like a self-conscious idiot and say, "I thought not having you around was what I needed to stay sane. Maybe I was wrong."

Another long pause. I know he's trying not to scare me off but I really wish he'd just react. This is a huge step for me. I hope he realizes.

"You're my sanity," he says softly. "You're what's keep me going. You know that, don't you?"

I blink away some tears I didn't know I was shedding and in a flash he's right in front of me. And he's so beautiful. So damn beautiful. Perhaps Leah was right and that makes him all the more dangerous. Or maybe he's just a boy, a boy who kept making all the wrong choices until there was no good choice left.

"I know we can't erase what happened. I don't want to erase what happened. But I think I need you in my life. My... not quite a life." Before I find myself emptied of everything that matters. I don't know how much time I have left, and I'd rather spend it with you. I don't say that aloud, though. I think he knows it anyway.

He brushes a tear away from my cheek with his thumb and we're standing so close if I leaned in just a little, we'd be all meshed up together. I never quite managed to repress the memory of that. I don't know what I did to deserve him. Either I was a terrible person or I did something really right. It's hard to tell, really, what's evil and what's good when you're locked in a box with countless other wandering souls, forever in limbo. So hard that I don't know that it matters, so long as it's enough to live on.


End file.
